


Time Waits for No One

by BisexualRoger (HyperPluviophile), nastally



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, Collaboration, Doomed Relationship, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Internalized Homophobia, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Platonic Soulmates, Sad and Happy, Soulmates, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, You will most likely cry too, or so we think anyway, we made ourselves cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/pseuds/BisexualRoger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: “It would be so easy to pretend the years haven't passed. Because everything has changed, everythingischanging, irreversibly so with every passing year. But those pale blue eyes are just the same as they always were. And that old familiar longing will never leave him for as long as he lives, or so Freddie thinks. Or so he feels-”- A series of festive vignettes detailing Freddie and Roger’s relationship over the course of fifty years.
Relationships: Dominique Beyrand/Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Bill Reid, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, Jo Morris/Roger Taylor, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 42
Kudos: 76





	Time Waits for No One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dawn of Aquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372263) by [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally). 



> Hello, one and all!
> 
> Welcome to this collaboration by Nastally and BisexualRoger, which has been in the works for a few months. We originally planned to post it around Christmas time, but life got in the way so we've only just finished it. We never intended for it to get this long, but here it is! Our writing meshed together, for your enjoyment.
> 
> This is heavily inspired by Nastally's Dawn of Aquarius, in that a (failed) romantic relationship between Freddie and Roger is presumed prior to the start of this fic. However, there is no need to have read Dawn of Aquarius. This is a standalone pìece of writing.
> 
> The song lyrics between the scenes are from 'Wintertime Love' by the Doors.

\- - -

_Wind is so cold, is that the reason?_

_Keeping you warm, your hands touching me_

\- - -

**1969**  
**Christmas Eve**

"Why not? We've got time." 

If Freddie were in any better state of mind he'd despise himself for how easily the words slip out. There is a myriad of reasons _why not_. But they've spent the afternoon emptying several bottles of red wine in good company at the stall (that in itself is perhaps one reason) and there's a heavy haze clouding his thoughts. His head is spinning slightly as they collapse onto the horrid red vinyl sofa, arms around each other and lips crashing together even as they're kicking off their shoes. 

"That's not what I meant," replies Roger when they break apart for a moment, his voice low and husky and barely above a whisper. His eyes keep flicking apprehensively to the flat door (as if he's worried that the mere act itself will summon an unwelcome audience), but that doesn't stop him from arching into Freddie's touch with a soft whine when the other man's hand ghosts the front of his trousers. 

They've got time. Although perhaps not that much of it before Mike gets back. Freddie is fairly certain that his bandmate is their only other flatmate who hasn't gone away for Christmas yet because he's having Christmas Eve dinner at his girlfriend's house. Isn't he? Right now, Freddie can barely remember and he's too drunk to care. 

Their hands roam each others' bodies with needy desperation, as though uncertain where to even begin. They're breathing each other between hurried kisses that taste of red wine and cigarettes, and once his tongue has wound its way into Roger's mouth, Freddie claims him with the ferocity of a predator pouncing on its prey. 

With his fingers already impatiently fumbling with the buttons of Roger's shirt, he can't bring himself to feel anything but a resigned sense of determinism. They've performed this song and dance far too many times, and if he were honest with himself, Freddie might admit that he knew this was where tonight was headed from the start. Every word, every gesture, every look furtively exchanged at the stall while they laughed and joked and drank with friends and girlfriends. 

He knew it even as he kissed Mary goodbye outside the tube station, glancing over her shoulder to find Roger watching him from a short distance. Behind a veil of cigarette smoke, an expression in his eyes that was half yearning and half resignation. 

For all their arguments and faux indifference and empty platitudes about how they can't do this anymore, it always comes back to this. To the two of them alone and in each other's arms. 

And as his hands slide inside Roger's shirt and he feels the younger man shiver, it occurs to Freddie dimly that perhaps once you've loved someone so deeply - so unconditionally and intimately - there can never be any resets. 

Only hiatuses.

"Not here," Roger murmurs, giving up - giving in - as he takes Freddie by the hand. 

They stumble into their shared room, and it's absolutely freezing because no one has been home all day and so the heating has been off. The window frame is full of cracks and doesn't keep the warmth in. But right now all Freddie feels is the heady heat of the other man's body pressed up against him and hot breath on his neck. 

In the back of his mind Freddie’s conscience draws his attention to the myriad of physical reminders as to why this should’ve ended long ago. The stray tube of lipstick on Roger's bedside table, Mary's cardigan draped over the foot of Freddie's bed, a pair of high heels by the door. And yet with his fingers tangled in Roger’s hair they seem abstract to Freddie. Far away emblems of women that only exist insofar as he knows they’re not here right now, and that’s all that matters. 

It's Roger's bed they fall into. As usual, it's unmade. A mess of sheets half coming off the bed, a bunched up duvet and the pillow lost in it all somewhere. But as Roger's scent swallows him whole, Freddie's head is swimming from an excess of both wine and desire. 

How can something be so wrong and feel so wonderful? He closes his eyes and loses himself completely in the sensation of the other man as Roger weighs him down, trapping him against the sheets. He can't help the breathy moans which escape him when Roger's tongue finds his neck and the shell of his ear. Even though Freddie is fairly certain that Roger must be at least as drunk as himself, he's being so frightfully careful. Leaving no marks. And that is as it should be. But a wildly irrational part of Freddie wants to be bruised, wants teeth on his throat, and nails digging into his skin so hard it hurts.

Or if not that… 

"Fuck me," Tongue loosened by the alcohol, he feels no shame as the words roll over his lips, a whisper against Roger's ear. Instead, just hearing himself say it is like fuel to the fire for the burning ache deep inside him. 

A grunt and teeth sinking into his earlobe is what he receives in reply, but then Roger presses his face into Freddie's neck, shakes his head. 

"No," he utters, _moans_ it, really, all while grinding his cock against Freddie's thigh. Bastard. 

"Yes," Freddie breathes and tugs at Roger's hair, hard. Pulls him up to look him in the eye and nips at his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. "Yes, you will," he commands him between kisses so savage he isn't sure if he seeks to thrill or punish him, "You will." 

It has the desired effect, anyhow. Roger's eyes are half-hooded and impossibly dark as he stares back at him. Then he pushes himself up to sitting and straddles Freddie's thighs, reaching for the ornate, golden belt Freddie is wearing over his velour trousers. It's a broad, embroidered piece of material, a bit of costume he picked out at the stall earlier today. 

"How the fuck-" 

"Here," Freddie quickly tugs at a couple of strings on the side and unties it, lifting himself up (as much as he can with Roger on top of him) to slide it out from under himself. It's barely hit the floor and Roger's fingers have already found his cock, pulling it free from the confines of his trousers. Freddie moans his approval, eyes falling shut, as the other man strokes him roughly, almost aggressively. His teeth dig into his bottom lip as he reaches up to grab onto the iron rods of the headboard. 

"Or…" Roger drops down onto one elbow and is suddenly above him again, his breath hot and moist on Freddie's cheek as he tosses him off. "...I could just fucking make you come all over yourself right now. Yeah? Hmm?" 

Freddie whines. He's panting through parted lips, hips trying to buck up into the touch, only his range of movement is restricted. 

"No," he manages, "please, I- please." 

'Don't you want to?' he wants to cry, 'Don't you want me?' Ignoring the fact that he knows exactly why they shouldn't. Because a rushed, illicit handjob or blowjob here and there is one thing, but what he's asking for is _more_ , perhaps more than either one of them can handle once it's all over and they have to face the reality of what they've done. Of what they are doing. 

Only it's been so long. 

And what if-

What if this time really is the last time? The thought hits him and there's a pang of desperate sadness, lost in the haze of pleasure somewhere. 

Roger is making his way down the side of his neck to his chest with lips and tongue, nuzzling the front of his shirt open where it is already unbuttoned. His lips hone in on a nipple and he sucks it into his mouth, pumping him hard in his fist, making Freddie arch his back with a weak keening sound. It's only the numbing effect of the alcohol that saves him from coming right there and then, having spent all day wanting nothing more than this. 

"God, Roger, _please_ …" he hears himself whine, one hand coming down to tangle in dark blond hair. "It's Christmas."

Everything grinds to a halt for a moment, in the face of the utter ridiculousness of his words as they both wrap their heads around what he's just said. 

"What." 

"Uh-" 

And then Roger is shaking with laughter on top of his chest and Freddie is wheezing, hiding his face behind one hand. Oh god, they might just be too drunk for this. 

For fuck's sakes.

"You want me to fuck you," Roger snorts through fits of giggles, pushing himself up to look at him, "because it's _Christmas_ -" 

He can barely contain his laughter long enough to finish the sentence, and now they're at the point of no return, setting each other off again the moment one of them manages to get their breath back. It's hopeless. He's gone and ruined the mood spectacularly, and Freddie thinks he might _actually_ cry if he wasn't already crying tears of laughter. 

" _It's Christmas_ -" Roger wheezes hoarsely, laughing so hard he sounds like he's in pain. Freddie doesn't have enough breath left to form words, so he simply slaps his arm. 

When the drunken hysterics finally subside, Freddie blinks up at the ceiling, Roger's head in the crook of his neck. The room is spinning a little. Roger’s quiet chuckles reverberate through Freddie’s body as they're slowly petering out. The smile on his face fades and he pulls his lip over his teeth, terrified of the strange reality behind the momentary lightness and mirth. But before a familiar sense of panic can take a hold of him, Roger sighs and wraps his arms around him. Presses a kiss to his neck. Just there, below his ear. Gently. So gently. 

"Rog," Freddie breathes his name, for no other reason than he wants to acknowledge who it is, holding him. Whose warm embrace it is, shielding him from the world and keeping him here in this moment which he doesn't want to leave. 

Roger lifts his head up, blond strands of hair falling down around them as their eyes meet. The silence feels heavy with words left unspoken, but neither one of them seems to have the courage to say them. Instead, Roger lays a hand on his cheek and kisses him. 

There's no urgency in it now. 

No desperation. 

Only tenderness. 

Somewhere at the back of Freddie's mind, he realises fully well that they are entering more dangerous territory still. That as long as everything is rushed and rough and over with fast, they can pretend it was just another momentary lapse of sanity. Slow and reverent is not what this should be. But with Roger's tongue softly licking into his mouth, and the slide of his calloused thumb over Freddie's cheekbone, guilt and fear drop away in the face of how much he has longed for this. Roger breaks the kiss and swallows, frowning slightly, his gaze searching and uncertain when it maps Freddie's face as though he's only just really looking, really seeing him. 

They're breathing against each others' lips, frozen in a strange limbo between intimacy and awkwardness. Freddie is keenly aware of his state of undress, the feeling of skin on skin where Roger's bare chest meets his, the fabric of Roger's trousers, rough against his half-hard cock. He slides a hand down the side of Roger's body and underneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over warm skin. Roger's lips answer the caress, leaving featherlight kisses all along Freddie's jaw. With a sigh, Freddie turns his head to the side, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused as he gazes out of the window where snow is now slowly drifting to the ground in the light of the street lamp. And with it, a silence seems to have descended over London. He can barely even hear the traffic. There is only the sound of their breathing and the creak of the mattress springs as Roger shifts his weight and dips his tongue into the shell of his ear, drawing a quiet moan from him. And when Freddie closes his eyes, it feels as though they're the only two people left in the world. 

They go on like this for some time. Minute caresses and kisses, so slow and sweet, warming Freddie from the inside out. But also gradually flooding him with desire again until his pulse is racing and his cock has taken a great interest in proceedings once more. Their hips are rocking against each other just barely, the friction far from enough. 

It isn't until Roger sits up to strip off his shirt completely that Freddie realises he's so turned on he's trembling, and when the other man trails his fingers down Freddie's chest, undoing the last button of his shirt on the way, he arches into the touch and reaches for Roger's belt. 

Eyes dark as night in the dim light, Roger watches him undo his belt and then takes over, pushing himself up on his knees for a moment to make short work of the buttons on his fly. Freddie immediately takes that opportunity to wiggle out from between Roger’s legs as he peels himself out of his own trousers and underwear completely. 

The moment Roger pulls his trousers down just past his hips, Freddie is up on his haunches in front of him, bending down to close his lips around the head of his cock. 

"Ah, fuck," the younger man brings one hand down on Freddie's shoulder for balance. "Freddie… Jesus, ahh… yeah…" 

The raspy moans he produces when Freddie takes him deeper and then nearly lets him slide all the way out again, tongue flicking and circling over the tip, the whole thing repeated over and over, send Freddie wild with the thought of Roger's cock inside him. What he lacks in coordination in his inebriated state, he makes up for in passion, perhaps too much so. When his teeth accidentally catch the sensitive head Roger hisses, and then there's a hand in his hair, pulling him up. Their lips meet each other halfway in a sloppy kiss, all tongue and hunger, hands on each other's bodies and tangling in each other's hair. 

Until Freddie's fingers splay out on Roger's chest and he pushes himself off and lets himself drop back onto the bed, dark locks of hair fanning out around his head. The wine that's gone to his head leaves little room for impulse control. Light-headed, heart racing and blood rushing in his ears, he peers up at Roger through his lashes and lewdly drags two fingers into his mouth, all the while slowly stroking himself with his other hand. Kneeling beside him, Roger frowns a little as he watches, breathing hard through parted lips. 

He watches Freddie pull his slick fingers from his mouth and watches his legs fall open. Watches him reach down and throw his head back with a quiet grunt as he sinks the tip of one finger inside himself. And then Freddie can keep his eyes open no longer, caught between burning desire and shame. However, the former far outweighs the latter and with his eyes closed and his head swimming with dizziness, it's almost as though none of this is real at all. There's too much friction so he pulls his hand back up, spits on his fingers and then thrusts deeper inside himself. 

He can feel Roger lower himself down beside him and then there's a hand trailing up his inner thigh, fingers wrapping around his cock, brushing his own hand aside. With a soft whine, Freddie slides his now free hand around Roger's waist and turns toward the lips searching for his, and into a breathy, open-mouthed kiss. He's working a second finger into himself now, somewhat impatiently, shuddering at the feeling of it and the anticipation. 

He can feel Roger touching himself, too. Knuckles brushing against Freddie's hip. Wanking them both at the same time. Chest heaving, Freddie pulls one leg up higher, pushing his fingers deeper and spreading them just a little. 

His eyes flutter open, just barely, as he glances at the younger man who has lowered his head onto his shoulder. The realisation that Roger is watching them, watching him enact what is in essence an uncompromising invitation to please fuck him, excites him in a way that makes his cheeks burn hot and his insides ache unbearably with need. 

He finds himself playing up to it without thinking, the knowledge of what he's doing as much of a turn on as the act itself. Freddie brings his hand back up and spits on his fingers again, plunges them back inside himself with a lascivious moan, hips lifting up off the bed. 

"Fuck," Roger's voice is breathless and his hand on Freddie's dick has lost its rhythm. 

"Yeah," Freddie breathes, half turning toward him and half trying to pull Roger on top of himself, "Yeah… come here… come on." 

It doesn't take much persuading. 

"You sure?" asks Roger, but he's already up on his elbows on top of him, "I- I don't, uh, have any…" 

"It's fine," Freddie demonstratively spits into his hand again and spreads the saliva in and around his hole. It's good enough. He's drunk enough not to mind if it's a bit sore. A part of him thinks perhaps he wants it that way. Roger follows his example and slicks himself up with spit, kneeling between Freddie's legs. His trousers are still bunched up around his thighs and Freddie is still wearing his unbuttoned shirt, staring down at the other man's cock, suddenly overcome by a strange sort of amazed disbelief that this is really happening. 

Then he looks up and they're gazing at each other's faces, yet not quite daring to look each other in the eye as Roger lowers himself down and Freddie lifts his legs up high around his hips. It takes them a moment of fumbling to get the angle right. Roger moans low in his throat and curses and Freddie squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his lips and all but holding his breath as he feels his body surrender to the hard heat forcing its way inside. 

"Jesus… god…" Roger stops about halfway, bucks his hips just slightly. "You okay?" 

Freddie nods, still barely breathing.

"... Freddie."

In lieu of a reply, Freddie tightens the hold he has on Roger's hips with his legs, drawing him closer as he rocks up against him. They both gasp and Freddie's eyes snap open when Roger's hips are finally flush against him. 

Their eyes meet. Looking back at him, past all pretences, past their differences and failures, is the man he loves best in the world. Whether this will be true ten minutes, or two hours or five days from now, Freddie doesn't know. But it is undeniably true in this moment, he thinks, and tries to blame it on the wine. And yet, even as Roger lowers his head onto Freddie's shoulder and they move as one, breathing each other and clinging on to each other, Freddie can't deny that he knows what this is. (Love.) Knows this isn't what a quick, drunken shag should feel like. (Love.) Knows what it is they're doing here. (Making love.) 

His nails dig into Roger's back as the younger man picks up the pace, except now every thrust makes the bed creak and it reminds Freddie they've not even bothered to lock the door. But it's only a fleeting concern because then Roger lifts himself up on his hands, creating more leverage, and rolls his hips, driving himself into him hard at an angle that makes Freddie keen. 

And then, he stops, which prompts Freddie to blink his eyes open again. Roger is panting through parted lips, messy hair framing his face, and looking at him. Just looking at him, completely enthralled. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms stand out from the effort of holding himself up, and move smoothly as he pulls out and then slowly thrusts back inside, snapping his hips at the very end, coaxing a whimper from Freddie. There's a hint of a smirk on his lips as he does it again, and again. Sweet, gradual torture. Until Freddie is writhing beneath him, a hand gripping one of the rods of the headboard and the fingers of the other twisting around his cock. With a practiced move, Roger slides an arm underneath one of Freddie's legs and abandons his teasingly slow pace. Freddie throws his head back, mouth agape in a silent cry and eyes screwed shut as Roger starts slamming into him hard. It's fast and relentless, and Freddie is no longer aware of anything but how much he wants to come. 

"Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ -" he all but sobs, his whole body tense and teetering on the edge of release for what seems like an impossibly long time while he's fisting his own cock. The numbing effect of the alcohol isn't doing him any favours, but at the same time he could happily float in this state of toe-curling borderline ecstasy forever. 

Breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow, Roger breaks the rhythm for a moment, leaving them both trembling and gasping as he rolls his hips slowly a few times. 

"Ahhshit- so _good_ ," he whines, resuming where he left off, "so fucking good-"

"Yeah, ah! Yeah-"

"Ohshit _ohshit_ -" 

Roger collapses onto one elbow with a growl, the fingers of the other digging into Freddie's leg, his face contorted in beautiful, agonising delight as he comes inside him, and it's that which finally sends Freddie over the edge, too. 

He spills hot into his hand while Roger is catching his breath above him. 

"Christ," he moans weakly when Freddie clenches around him with a series of breathless moans. 

Silence reclaims the room. Reality seeps into the moment like the chilling draft of winter air through the window cracks. Slowly, they untangle themselves, boneless limbs dropping to the mattress. With a shuddering breath, Roger pulls out and clumsily climbs off the bed. Freddie can hear him rummaging around in a drawer before a wad of tissue paper is thrust at him. 

"Thank you," he murmurs hoarsely, and proceeds to mop up the mess on his stomach and between his legs, all the while staring at the ceiling. 

The moment of reckoning has come too soon. Freddie knows he ought to feel crushing guilt. He ought to be disgusted with himself, but instead, there's just nothing. Only a bit of nausea and the red wine headache that's coming on slowly. How cold and heartless he must be inside, Freddie thinks, dropping the tissue next to the bed. 

To his surprise, the mattress dips beside him and it makes his breath hitch. It's only that he hadn't expected it. They're usually all business after. Or they have been, the last few times. Then again, the last few times were not like _this_ , a small voice points out in a dark corner of his mind. Roger lies back down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and Freddie can feel himself tense up. Suddenly acutely aware of how _naked_ he is, not sure if he is more afraid of what the other might say or of being pulled into his arms.

Roger does neither. 

Instead he turns his head and kisses Freddie's shoulder through the shirt which somehow never came off. It's an offer, perhaps almost a plea. Freddie considers turning to face him. But he can't. Because if he does, they will kiss and embrace each other. And then, Freddie knows, he will never let go again. 

And it has to stop. Surely, at some point, this has to _stop_. 

"It's freezing," he utters with a shiver, turning the other way to peer out of the window instead. The snow is really coming down now. It'll look gorgeous in the morning, no doubt. 

"I'm hungry," Roger complains, and chuckles against Freddie's shoulder a moment later. 

"What?" asks Freddie, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt as he slowly pulls it around himself again.

"Nothing," Shaking his head, Roger gives another throaty laugh. "It's just we sound like a pair of orphans from a Dickens novel." 

And that's that. It's too late now to address what just happened. They've gone past that window of opportunity.

It's for the best, thinks Freddie. 

Roger pulls himself up to sitting and gets to his feet. Almost in tandem, Freddie too rolls off the bed. Still drunk enough that it’s something of an effort to locate and (more importantly) don his underwear and trousers, but just about sober enough to have the common sense not to look over his shoulder at Roger until he’s certain that the other man too is fully clothed. It’s tempting to take one last look. Being able to hear Roger’s every move just feet away, but knowing that he shouldn't look, much less touch, stings. But he resists the urge, resteeling his resolve by fixing his stare pointedly on the pair of heels by the door, just barely visible in the darkness. 

He forces himself to wonder if Mary made it home safely. 

\- - -

_Love has been lost, is that the reason?_

_Trying so desperately to be free_

\- - -

**1970**  
**Christmas Day**

There’s an eerie stillness to the apartment block, likely just a result of both the silence and uncharacteristic darkness Roger encounters in the hall, but nevertheless something that has him halting for a moment. After wrestling his way through the crowds under the London lights the empty hallway makes a stark contrast to the streets he’d just left. As if Christmas, despite its pervasiveness, hasn’t quite managed to make it into this small corner of London. 

It’s oddly fitting, but not unexpected. Hoisting his luggage higher in his grip Roger walks further down the hallway, mentally counting who’s likely to be in and who he knows is spending Christmas away. Jack, Charlie and Joe are staying with family. Loretta and Ewa have travelled back to their respective home countries. The four men from room three managed to find cheap flights to Ibiza. And so on and so on. In fact, as Roger reaches the foot of the stairs, it occurs to him that he might be the only one still left in the building. 

Alone on Christmas Day. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalls his mother asking why only a week. Why couldn’t he have spent the whole of Christmas with her and Clare? In the dim light of the landing, suitcase hanging loosely in his numb grip and sleet sliding off the ends of his hair onto the carpet, Roger can’t help but wonder the same thing. It’s not like he hadn’t had the time. 

Not one to dwell on decisions already made however, he banishes the thought wearily. There’s no point letting questions like that linger, especially not when no amount of retroactive guilt will change the answer. 

With his free hand he fumbles around in his coat pocket for the key. His movements are heavy and clumsy, and only after he’s wrestled with the lock for a good few minutes does a voice from inside the apartment unexpectedly call out, “It’s already open!” 

Of course. Roger lowers the key warily. In all his musings he’d overlooked the distinct possibility that Freddie, too, might have found himself at a loose end tonight, although now in hindsight, it seems obvious.

Inside the apartment everything is pretty much as it had been when he’d left for Truro a week earlier; the same tacky bunting he and Brian had hung in an effort to make the room more homely continues to droop sadly from the ceiling. Dishes Roger had abandoned before leaving remain unwashed in the sink. Really the only noticeable differences are that the fragments of the mug Roger had shattered on his way out are now gone, and the middle of the floor is currently occupied by an oddly candid-looking Freddie. 

Accompanied by his art supplies and a gramophone, he lounges, a pad of paper perched on his lap. With his shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel and the top of his boxers peeking out through a gap, he exudes a casual energy that almost seems like a direct rebellion against the importance of tonight. While the rest of England is awash with lights and baubles and the festive (borderline reverent) mood that naturally comes with Christmas, here’s Freddie just being himself. Seemingly oblivious to the seasonal chaos unfolding just outside his apartment door. 

Roger hesitates for a moment in the doorway. Taking in the scene. Then he remembers that it’s his apartment, too, whether Freddie’s still angry with him or not, and he steps over the threshold. 

“Evening,” he prompts, when his presence elicits no reaction. 

“Oh, evening dear,” Freddie glances up briefly. There’s a smear of ink across his cheek and he’s chewing the end of his pen absentmindedly “How was Truro?” 

Roger grunts. 

“Fine.” 

But Freddie’s attention has already returned to the piece in front of him. 

The casual indifference hurts, far more than it ought to. Not that Roger feels particularly strongly either way about what has happened in Truro (if anything he’s sure that attempting to talk about it will only make him feel worse) but if there’s anyone who ought to ask, or at the very least have a schadenfreudic curiosity, it’s Freddie. Either in the midst of the chaos of Christmas he’s forgotten or he simply doesn’t care. Familiar with Freddie’s penchant for forgiving but never forgetting, Roger’s inclined to believe it’s the latter. 

And it’s this - not the pain of leaving Truro, or his guilt for leaving Clare, or even the possibility of spending Christmas alone - that finally has him boiling over. Because after everything that’s happened over the last twelve months, the least he deserves, the absolute bare minimum that the universe, that _Freddie _, could have given him was the smallest shred of empathy on today of all days. But no. Even after he’d set his expectations to a reasonable low they’ve been shattered.__

__It’s not fair to blame Freddie for any of this. It’s not his fault that Smile’s record deal went precisely nowhere and their new group is currently going nowhere without a bassist, or that him and Jo can’t quite seem to make things work for longer than a few months. But right now neither his non-existent music career nor Jo or any of the other myriad of catastrophes happening in his life are here. There’s just Freddie. The human embodiment of everything that’s gone wrong recently. A lightning rod of resentment just waiting to be used._ _

__Ever in tune to Roger’s tempestuous moods, Freddie looks over. Eyes obviously scanning his friend's face, noting the telltale indicators of irritation._ _

__“Am I bothering you?” His voice is measured but there’s a surprisingly icy undertone to it._ _

__As if Roger could even begin to divulge what’s bothering him. He’s so angry that the words seem to stick in his throat, even before they’re fully formulated. Unable to find the words to say 'Yes. You and the rest of the whole sodding world is bothering me' he finds himself fixing his fury on the innocuous gramophone, which continues to pipe out insipid lyric after lyric._ _

__He rubs his temples, feeling his hands shake._ _

__“It’s-” He glares pointedly, “Does it have to be so fucking loud?”_ _

__Freddie gapes at him._ _

__“Roger, it’s barely-” He glances down at the record player. “It’s at five, for goodness sake.”_ _

__“Yeah, but it’s still my fucking flat. I don’t pay my rent so you can-”_ _

__“Oh, so now you’re the only one who pays rent?” Freddie lowers his pen slowly and deliberately, a dangerous glint in his eye. Daring Roger to strike the first blow._ _

__It’s an obvious tactic. But one that never fails to incense him._ _

__“That’s clearly not what I fucking-”_ _

__“No, no, please explain to me why your rent is suddenly-”_ _

__Inside Roger something snaps. Trust Freddie to completely divert the issue, to twist the argument into something completely unrelated to his original gripe._ _

__“Oh, grow the fuck up, Fred! Is it so hard to just turn the damn music down?”_ _

__He knows he’s lost by losing his temper first, even before Freddie raises an eyebrow at him._ _

__“I’m the one who needs to grow up? Correct me if I’m wrong, dear, but I’m not the one throwing such a damn hissy fit over something as trivial as a record player on- on bloody Christmas of all days.”_ _

__Although he’s undoubtedly just seized the final word, Freddie stumbles towards the end of his sentence, finally betraying what Roger had suspected the moment he’d walked through the door, even if he’d had no evidence to confirm it._ _

__As with any feelings between the two of them repression can only go so far. At most it just prolongs the inevitable, ensuring that the fallout is even more destructive and chaotic than it would have been otherwise. Of course. Freddie’s still angry with him for what happened before he left for Truro. How could he not be? The shards of china may be gone from the floor but the wounds they represented have far from healed over. If anything they’ve just grown more poisonous._ _

__Shaking with rage and unable to bear the stifling atmosphere any longer, Roger finds himself storming past Freddie. Straight out the apartment door, across the dark landing and finally into the coffin-esque bathroom, where he throws the door behind him so hard that the mirror begins to quiver. He grips the edges of the sink, breathing heavy. He imagines marching right back in and tearing Freddie’s drawing to shreds with his bare hands. Hours of work gone in an instant. The thought fills him with a sick delight that only fuels his spite._ _

__But even as he stands there, Freddie beats him to the mark. Already enacting his own revenge in the form of blasting his music as loud as he can, to the point where Roger can hear it just as clearly from here as he’d been able to back in their room._ _

__It’s a slow winding jazz number, drawling acapella notes over a chorus of trumpets that flood the apartment, so loud it’s making the walls around him vibrate. Doubtless they’ll be receiving one in a long line of noise complaints shortly, but that’s not what catches Roger’s attention._ _

__The song is just as nauseatingly romantic as the previous track, only this time it’s one he recognises as something his grandfather would put on when he’d had too much port. Ghost like it emerges from the deepest recesses of his brain, gradually dousing his anger as it grows more and more familiar._ _

___'...Just remember darling, all the while, you belong to me…'_ _ _

__Roger stands numbly, still leaning on the sink as the hot sting of grief blooms in his chest. A mix of both his guilt for leaving Clare and his mother, but primarily shame. Shame for letting Freddie incense him over something so trivial. For not being able to move past the events of the last twelve months like an adult. For everything that hasn’t worked out the way it could’ve done._ _

___'...I’ll be so alone, without you…'_ _ _

__Roger’s dignity won’t allow him to be moved to tears over a smushy love ballad, nevertheless he still has to take a few moments to collect himself before he emerges listlessly from the bathroom. He flirts briefly with the idea of heading down the stairs and leaving the block all together, but ultimately resigns himself to the fact that he doesn’t want to be on bad terms with Freddie. Not really._ _

__Deep down he’s exhausted, so tired of the endless bickering and fighting that only ever seems to end when they’re both too hurt to keep going. At the very least when they’d been… whatever they were, it’d felt like they were arguing with purpose. And those arguments were far outweighed by the sheer fun of being young and in love and, _for goodness sake_ , they’d loved each other._ _

__Roger’s wise enough to understand that romantically things would never have worked out between them. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have odd moments such as this where he almost wishes they could’ve done._ _

__Back inside their apartment, it's a wonder Freddie hasn’t gone deaf with how loud the music now is. Roger wouldn’t put it past him to permanently ruin his hearing for nothing more than sheer unfailing pettiness, but regardless, if it is bothering him he gives no visual signs._ _

__The only indications he gives that he’s even aware of Roger’s presence are the stiff strokes of his pen and his tight lipped expression, which betrays his thoughts as clearly as if he’d voiced them. Only when he’s made Roger stare at him for a good few minutes does he glance over his shoulder and, in true infuriating fashion, slowly and purposefully lean over to turn the record player _up _.___ _

____But Roger’s done rising to the bait. He’s hurt and tired and no amount of pettiness on Freddie’s part is going to tempt him back into another pointless spat._ _ _ _

____“Fred.”_ _ _ _

____No response. He tries again, louder: “Freddie!”_ _ _ _

_____‘... Maybe you’ll be lonesome too...’_ _ _ _ _

____Only when he strides over to the record player and plants himself inignorably in Freddie’s eyeline does he get any sort of response._ _ _ _

____“Oh,” says Freddie, pen balanced daintily between two fingers in a deliberate display of nonchalance, “Did you want something?”_ _ _ _

____Even as little as ten minutes ago this would’ve had Roger biting down the urge to slap him. But if there’s any benefits to conceding the argument and taking responsibility for his actions it’s that no amount of pettiness can ignite his resignation back to anger._ _ _ _

____He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. Freddie’s gaze making the skin on his cheeks burn._ _ _ _

____“I’m… sorry,” he begins lamely, “It was a long journey home.”_ _ _ _

____“Hm,” Freddie purses his lips, mouth set in a tight but very readable line._ _ _ _

____Roger sighs._ _ _ _

____“And I behaved like a bellend? What more do you want?”_ _ _ _

____In many ways it doesn’t seem fair that Freddie’s drawing out his exasperation for as long as possible. “I suppose I’ll forgive you…” he says slowly, “if I absolutely have to.”_ _ _ _

____His face splits into a grin that Roger can barely bring himself to return. Instead he settles for a curt nod. A part of him wants to ask for more. To divulge how really not too good his day has been. To beg for affection even when it would neither be deserved nor appropriate. Anything to fill the hollow void that being forgiven seems to have opened in his chest. Fuck it, as emasculating as it might feel to admit he wants a hug. Just some basic human affection to anchor him back to Christmas. To remind him that his life isn’t a complete train wreck._ _ _ _

____But that’s not the sort of person he is. So instead he takes a seat a respectable few centimeters away from Freddie on the floor. Once as comfortable as he’s ever going to be on the hard laminate, he stiffly pulls a pack of cigarettes and a nearly empty lighter from his jacket and mumbles._ _ _ _

____“But please, can you turn that bloody thing down? My head is killing me.”_ _ _ _

____Freddie snorts, eyeing up his friend's cigarette. “And a fire in the middle of our room will definitely help.”_ _ _ _

____But between his now resumed pen strokes he does at least turn the gramophone off. His own nonverbal form of an apology._ _ _ _

____Roger shrugs, the reassuring taste of tobacco filling his lungs like a bizarre internal pseudo-hug.  
“If I’m burning to death it won’t hurt as much by comparison.” _ _ _ _

____“I suppose that’s true,” Freddie gives him an affectionate nudge, his arm lingering just a bit too long to the point where what had once been such an easy gesture now feels awkward and forced, “But make sure you crack open a window when you’re done, dear. I think poor Brian might actually go into cardiac arrest if he realises you’ve been smoking inside again.”_ _ _ _

____“One less person to share the room with.”_ _ _ _

____“One less person paying rent.”_ _ _ _

____Silence falls over the pair again. Freddie returns his full attention to his picture and Roger watches listlessly, cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth and a hollow misery in his chest that has him longing to fill the uncomfortable quiet, but with what he’s not entirely sure. He wants to pull Freddie into his arms, have the other man’s warmth beside his if only for a moment. But it’s too late for that._ _ _ _

____Twelve months too late._ _ _ _

____With that in mind, he can’t help wondering if it might be worth venturing back out into the night. Finding a pub and someone to act as a temporary stand in for everything he wants but can’t seem to find. Whether or not there’ll be any young women around at this time on Christmas Day is another matter entirely, but at least if he’s at a pub, he won’t be here._ _ _ _

____Jo is also a possible option, only the last time they’d spoken her hesitant “... My sisters and my father… they’re still not- Look Roger, I don’t think it would be a good idea. I’ll see you after Christmas” had removed the possibility of them spending much time together. There’s a small chance she’ll be able to slip away from her family festivities for an hour or two, but funnily enough Roger doesn’t think a handjob in the snow behind the recycling bins on Silver Walk would make him feel better._ _ _ _

____No, the pub would be his best option. And failing that, a nightclub._ _ _ _

____Flicking the butt of his cigarette away onto the floor (earning him a reproachful look) he stands up. Freddie doesn’t question it when he grabs a fistful of coins, nor does he voice any interest in where Roger might be going at this time of night on Christmas, but his gaze follows him around the room as he gathers up his things._ _ _ _

____Only once he’s practically out the door does Roger break the silence._ _ _ _

____“I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, scuffing his feet against the loose threshold strip, “for getting angry.”_ _ _ _

____Freddie waves a hand dismissively. “Water under the bridge, dear.”_ _ _ _

____“Okay,” Roger nods. With his hand poised on the door handle there’s little else left to say, if anything at all. But it doesn’t stop him lingering on the threshold for just a moment, as if he’s expecting everything he either wants to say or ought to to emerge from the hollow pit in his stomach._ _ _ _

____It proves to be just a moment too short. A few steps onto the dim landing and with the door swinging slowly closed behind him he hears a barely audible -_ _ _ _

____“Merry Christmas, Roger.”_ _ _ _

____\- tossed from the apartment so casually that he’s not quite sure what it is that makes him turn his head to look._ _ _ _

____He ends up regretting doing so immediately._ _ _ _

____Shrouded in the darkness of the hall, Freddie presumably can’t see him, but in the split second before the door shuts, Roger gets a complete, unobstructed view of his former partner. Eyes dark and sad and full of a grief no longer masked by nonchalance or anger. Eyes that might even be tearful. Roger only has one second to gape in horror before the door closes fully and he’s alone once more._ _ _ _

____Of course. While he’d been caught up in his own thoughts of home and love and loneliness he’d, as always with Freddie, missed the obvious. That he, too, with his own strained relationship to both his girlfriend and his family, had also been alone on Christmas._ _ _ _

____It all clicks into place with horrific clarity. Why Freddie had been listening to those atrocious love ballads, why he’d so readily baited Roger into a needless argument, why Freddie wasn’t out partying. If only he’d just realised sooner._ _ _ _

____But as he stares dumbfounded at the now closed door Roger realises that that’s how it’s always been. They’ll fight and they’ll bicker and he won’t notice how much Freddie’s hurting until it’s far too late to undo the damage._ _ _ _

____Roger takes a stiff step back towards the door. Fingers ghosting the handle as he considers his options. It’d be so easy to get lost in the London atmosphere, and to drown all thoughts of Freddie with a pint or several. But then again… He thinks of Truro, and how having already made one bad decision tonight he’s not anxious to make another. Has he become so much of a coward that he can’t face up to the uncomfortable truth that, much as it’s easier than discussing their feelings, the two of them can’t live like this forever? Pretending that nothing ever happened, and that neither of them bitterly regrets that it’s come to this?_ _ _ _

____His grip on the door handle tightens. Then he takes a steeling breath and pushes himself back inside. Perhaps it’s not too late after all._ _ _ _

____\- - -_ _ _ _

______ _ _

_Fallen in love, I'm hoping to be_

\- - -

**1973**  
**Boxing Day**

It isn't often that he arrives on time to these kinds of things. And it isn't that he's usually late because he likes to make an entrance, either. (That's Freddie's department.) Punctuality has simply never been his strong suit.  
But today, Roger is early because he wants to be. There is a Christmas card burning a hole into his pocket, and an urgency in his step as he jogs up to the Kensington and pushes the door open, stepping from the cold, howling winter into the welcoming warmth of the pub. 

It smells like roast dinner and the radio at the end of the bar is playing _Sleigh Ride_ by The Ronettes. The place is packed with people, and as Roger casts a look around, Brian's laughter can be heard from across the room, his large mane of curls easy to spot. Roger pulls off his cap, shaking off a dusting of snow, and ruffles his hair as he makes his way over to the table where John and Brian are already seated with their girlfriends.

They greet him with big grins and open arms. 

"Where's Jo?" asks John, settling back down next to Veronica. 

"She's got a family thing," Roger replies, and it's mostly true.

The reunion is a very merry one. Almost two weeks since the end of their tour with Hoople, which has been a blast, and it turns out that's just about enough time for him to have missed his bandmates more than he thought he would.

In fact, he doesn't realise how much he's missed them until John is doing an impression of the grumpy techie in Edinburgh whose accent no one could understand, Brian is waxing lyrical about the latest record he's acquired (Emerson, Lake & Palmer's _Brain Salad Surgery_ ) and they're all poking fun at the fact that the one person who actually lives all but next door is, of course, the last to arrive. 

Roger's eyes keep wandering to the windows, looking out onto Kensington High Street as he sips his pint. Delicate frost patterns line the window frames, and behind them, he hopes to catch a glimpse of fur, a flash of black hair, a confident gait so familiar he'd know it anywhere. There's a faint tingle in the pit of his stomach, which he tells himself is just the result of the festive mood, but he feels it keenly every time his hand slips into the pocket of his coat which he still hasn't taken off, feeling for the envelope tucked away inside it as though it might go missing at any moment. 

He's not the sentimental kind. Not really. He never was a great romantic. So he isn't quite sure what he's doing, because written declarations of love are not his sort of thing. And it isn't like that anyway, not really. 

But if Freddie could waltz into the studio, sit down at the piano and sing a ballad in front of everyone, without batting an eyelash, causing Roger to stare at the floor intently while he both struggled to maintain a poker face and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, then perhaps a Christmas card containing a little too much truth is not so over the top. 

That's all it is, Roger thinks, pulling his hand out of his pocket and striking a match to light the cigarette between his lips. 

_Truth_. 

Never enough of that, between them, in all these years of back and forth. Of _never again_ and _one last time_. 

He knows he has been lying to himself, first and foremost. And he wonders if Freddie knows that. 

_'Why did you have to leave me?_  
_Why did you deceive me?'_

If Freddie knows that it's himself Roger has been deceiving for the longest time. Only now, for once, everything seems crystal clear.

Perhaps sometimes it isn't until something is well and truly out of reach that you realise just how much you want it back. 

They're waiting for their food to arrive by the time Freddie makes an entrance, waving one hand in the air with the flair of a monarch greeting his adoring subjects and holding Mary's hand in the other. 

"You're late!" Brian tells him.

"Of course we are, dear," There's exuberance in his stride and a big smile on his face, dark eyes lined with kohl and twinkling mischievously. "Fashionably late!" 

The tingle in Roger's stomach rises to his chest, even though right now is not the time. He can't give him the card now, not in front of everyone. He'll have to wait for an opportune moment.

But Freddie's eyes never meet his, and that is a little strange. There is an undercurrent of nervousness in his demeanor, Roger thinks, as he watches him shrug off his fur coat and pull off his gloves. 

Something's up. 

It's in the way Freddie turns to Mary and exchanges a knowing look with her the moment he has his drink in hand, and then he reaches for a fork and taps it against his glass, still on his feet, commanding everybody's attention. 

"Mary and I have an announcement to make," he says, and Roger doesn't hear what he says next, because finally Roger's eyes settle on Mary and he sees it. It's not enormous but it's staring him in the face, even before she raises her hand for everyone to see. 

Mary's smile shines as brightly as the gemstone set into the ring on her finger. 

It's like that awful sound of a needle being pulled off a record. Like a bucket of ice water tipped over his head. The cigarette burns in Roger's hand, forgotten. 

Brian and John are on their feet now to offer hugs and congratulatory pats on the back. Chrissie and Ronnie have leaned in to admire the ring, while Mary regales them with details of the proposal. 

"Christmas morning!" she beams, and, "box after box, all gift-wrapped, one inside the other, and there I was, wondering..." 

Roger hasn't moved, saved by the fact that he's at the other end of the table, too far away to lean in and give Freddie a hug. It's just as well, because he doesn't think he can bring himself to do it. As his heart drops like a lead weight, all he can think of are his own words all those months ago, trying to finally, firmly put an end to this mess of a situation, and the look on Freddie's face. 

And all he can hear is Freddie's voice, trembling just barely, as he sings his new song for them a few weeks later. 

_'When you say you didn't love me anymore…'_

Their eyes meet then, and it's a drop of comfort in a sea of regret that behind his smile, there's something vulnerable, something broken in Freddie's eyes, too. But then his expression turns harder, more resolute, as he raises his chin, looking down at Roger as though to say: This is what you wanted, is it not? 

_'Nevermore…'_

"Congratulations," Roger hears himself say as he raises his glass, trying to smile although he's not sure he's succeeding. His own voice sounds distant to his ears. "'Scuse me." 

And with that, he drops the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, rises from his chair and leaves for the bathroom, mostly unnoticed amidst the excitement. 

But not by all. 

The door swings open and Brian comes into the men's room while Roger is leaning on the sink, questioning every decision he has made in the last four years. 

"Fuck's sake," he rolls his eyes and turns away with an exasperated huff, "What? What do you want?" 

"What do I-" 

Brian looks pissed off. This doesn't change the fact that Roger's willingness to talk to him about this, _any_ of this, is on par with his desire to gargle glass. And he makes this known by turning his back and glaring at the urinals, hoping Brian will just leave him the fuck alone. 

It doesn't work, of course. 

"Sorry, but what do you think you're doing?" he demands to know instead. 

"Nothing," Roger grumbles quietly, half looking back over his shoulder. "As you can see, I'm doing absolutely nothing. So kindly fuck off, alright?" 

There's a few moments of silence. When Brian speaks, it isn't the confrontational retort Roger expects. 

"Tell him."

It's quiet and it's cautious and it makes him want to laugh and drive his fist through the mirror. But in the end, he simply shakes his head. 

"Tell him what?" 

"Whatever you have to," Brian says, sounding tired, and Roger turns around to look at him, one hand sliding into his pocket. "Or else," The tall guitarist shrugs his shoulders, "go out there and _be happy_ for him, Rog. Your best friend's getting married." 

Roger wants to say awful things. He wants to say Freddie's making a mistake. That he's lying to himself. That he, Roger, shouldn’t be the reason-

No. 

Even in his head, he can hear how self-absorbed that sounds.

"I know," he tells Brian instead, and lowers his eyes until the other man leaves, muttering a quiet 'okay' on his way out. 

Another bloke comes in just seconds later and Roger steps aside, instinctively running a hand through his hair in front of the mirror just to appear as if he has some business being there. While the other man politely ignores him and goes about his business, Roger reaches into his coat pocket again and pulls out the red envelope. 

Red. 

It looks every bit like the twee love letter it is. 

Roger snorts quietly and swallows. The card came with the envelope. The motif is nothing special, just a few golden baubles. Still, it's embarrassing how much time he spent selecting it at the shop. As if it matters.

Before he can spend too long thinking about it, Roger tears the card in half, envelope and all, and chucks it into the bin in the corner with the paper towels. 

There. 

Done. 

It was a stupid notion anyway, he thinks, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest. It's a good thing he didn't act on it. 

Better this way. 

Time to lay it to rest, once and for all. As he should have done years ago.

\- - -

_Come with me, dance, my dear_

\- - -

 **1979** (technically already 1980)  
**New Year's Eve** (technically already New Year's Day) 

Whose idea it was to climb out of the window and up the fire escape, Freddie will never know. He figures it must have been a joint effort, a classic case of folie à deux, but here they are on the roof, overlooking Mayfair. 

The night is alive with the faint sound of music and voices coming from all sides, glittering lights, and the promise of an unknowable future. Of excitement and adventure. 

Freddie is wildly alive, his heart beating dangerously fast as he drinks it all in, breathes it all in through every pore. 

The air is crisp, still and freezing and he should be cold. The leather jacket he's wearing is not all that cozy, nor is the thin layer of skin tight t-shirt beneath. But he doesn't feel the winter chill, not yet anyway. 

His body is a furnace, burning with the sheer force of life. He's limitless. Unstoppable. 

He's also, of course, incredibly drunk, very high and for a moment embarrassingly close to breaking into song. Roger saves him from that mad impulse by slinging an arm around his shoulders and whooping loudly into the night. 

"Nineteen-eighty!" he shouts at the dark orange city sky. "FUCK YEAH!" 

Freddie echoes his cheer and punches the air. They laugh and stagger sideways. It isn't entirely clear who's holding up who. It's lucky there's a low wall protecting them (somewhat) from a fatal stumble straight off the side of the building. Freddie imagines the headlines if they both plummet to their death tonight and can't contain his laughter. Roger laughs, too, before he has any idea what they're laughing about. 

"What?" 

"We could die," Freddie wheezes. "Can you imagine!" 

"Nooo, nonononuh-" Roger protests, taking him by the arm and yanking him away from the edge, a little too roughly. They bump into each other and Roger's hands land on his shoulders. "I'm not allowed to die." The drummer informs him, staring into his eyes, pupils impossibly huge.

"Aren't you?" Freddie grins, swaying a little. He agrees, of course. Roger is not allowed to die. Freddie is far too fond of him to allow it. 

"I'm not. Because." There's a mildly panicked, serious look on his friend's face all of a sudden. Freddie frowns.

"Rog."

"Dom's pregnant." 

"What."

"Yeah. Two months. S'why she left early."

"Oh shit," Freddie's eyes are as wide as Roger's now. 

"I'm gonna be a dad this year. Fuck. Freddie. I'm gonna," Roger blinks, a manic, nervous grin spreading across his face, "I'm gonna be a fucking _dad_. What the fuck. What do I. What do I _do_?" 

Freddie regains his composure first, or what remains of it, in his hazy, inebriated state. 

"You, my dear," he drawls, poking Roger in the chest, "are going to be a fucking fantastic father. That's what you'll do." 

Roger nods solemnly and leans back a bit, running a hand over his face. 

"Christ, I wasn't meant to tell anyone yet, I just-" 

"Am I the first to know?" 

"Yeah," Roger bursts out laughing, "Fucking hell, even my mum doesn't know yet! Jesus, Freddie, not a word, I mean it-" 

"Come here, you fucker," Freddie laughs breathlessly and pulls him into a hug. Roger wraps his arms around him tightly in return. 

Maybe Freddie is starting to feel the cold. Roger's body is radiating warmth and they stay like this for some time, perfectly comfortable in each other's arms. 

"I'm happy for you, darling," Freddie murmurs against the collar of Roger's blazer, gazing up at the starless, cloud covered sky. "Really, I am." 

And he must be. Really very deeply happy to share in this monumental event in his best friend's life, because what else could explain the sheen of tears suddenly clouding his vision. 

"Thank you," Roger squeezes him tighter for a moment, and Freddie pulls away and turns, taking a few steps forward as he looks out at the rooftops. The noise of the party below them reaches their ears through the open window. Several floors of revelers, the famous rubbing shoulders with the wealthy and the fortunate. Tony's down there somewhere. So is Peter, whose party it is, and a whole host of their friends. It's just that Freddie lost them, for a moment, when he and Roger nipped to the loo for a line. Was that a while ago? He should probably go find them. 

Fuck, it's cold up here.

So beautiful but so cold.

"Do you remember," Freddie finds himself saying, out of nowhere. He really doesn't understand where it comes from. "that tiny hole of a place we used to share?"

Roger snorts with laughter. "Which one?" 

Fair point. 

"The first one," Freddie says quietly, and he's shivering from the cold now, "the one in the attic. If you stood on the bed you could look out of the window and the view… it was just like this, do you remember it, dear?" 

"'Course I do." 

There's warmth in Roger's voice. Freddie turns back over his shoulder and looks at him, studying his face. He's smiling a hesitant sort of smile and squinting a little. 

"What?" 

Roger shakes his head minutely. 

"It's just I can't see your face," he chuckles, "My eyes were killing me so I took my contacts out." 

Freddie laughs and turns, taking a step closer.

"Better?" 

"Ehhh…" 

Freddie takes another step, pulling his lips over his teeth to hide a grin. 

"Now?" 

Roger shakes his head again and snickers. "I don't think you realise. I'm pretty fucking blind." 

Freddie comes closer. 

"There we…" Roger starts, but Freddie doesn't stop. 

He comes closer still and closes the distance between them until he's standing chest to chest with Roger, their faces so close that the tips of their noses almost brush. 

"Better?" 

Neither of them is smiling now. Freddie knows, because his eyes are on Roger's lips. He quickly looks up when he realises. 

"Better," Roger whispers, and swallows, gazing back at him. Freddie can feel his warm breath on his face. 

"Can you see me now?" Freddie utters, his jaw trembling slightly from the cold. 

"I see you." 

Roger's voice is a raspy whisper, his half-hooded gaze soft and yielding. He is one of the few people in the world who can say that, and mean it. 

The moment has caught them off-guard, the way these moments have a habit of doing. Rare as they are these days. 

It's all this heightened emotion. 'Just for a change', Freddie thinks to himself, and wants to laugh. As if _heightened emotion_ isn't their natural state of existence. 

It would be so easy to pretend the years haven't passed. Because everything has changed, everything _is_ changing, irreversibly so with every passing year. But those pale blue eyes are just the same as they always were. And that old familiar longing will never leave him for as long as he lives, or so Freddie thinks. Or so he feels. 

"I'm very drunk," he informs Roger. It's his mayday, a desperate SOS. Because if he's about to do something extremely ill-advised then he'll need Roger to stop him, since he can't seem to remember why he should stop himself. 

Roger sighs. His eyes leave Freddie's and travel down over his face. 

"You're freezing," he observes, looking at his trembling lips. They're both shivering, no longer sustained by the heat coursing through their bodies which clung to them when they first stepped outside. 

Freddie tilts his chin up ever so slightly just as Roger turns his head aside, catching Freddie's hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. 

"Let's get back inside." 

There's an echo of something, a pang of disappointment, before the moment dissolves like their breath in the cold night air, leaving behind only a vague sense of regret and relief in equal measure. 

A police siren sounds somewhere far below on the street. Freddie pulls his hand back as he steps away, eyes on the ground and a flimsy smile on his face.  
He should get back to the party. Back to his friends. Back to his boyfriend. What even is the time? He doesn't have the faintest idea. 

"Come on then, blondie," he says lightly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. "Lead the way." 

\- - -

_Winter's so cold this year_

\- - -

 **1981**  
**December 12th**

From his perch by the fireplace, Freddie takes another sip of brandy and surveys the room. The drink runs hot and bitter down his throat but he persists, his vindictive desire to have a good time tonight in spite of Bill overpowering any misgivings he may have about it. 

Not that it seems to be helping as of yet. Stood apart from his bandmates, and their wives and their offspring, arranged in neat groups across the room, he’s not exactly feeling spiteful, but it’s with a gripping, almost shameful envy that he watches them. The dull realisation that he has found himself the lone figure on Christmas having struck him full force several minutes earlier (hence the brandy). 

Wearily, Freddie reprimands himself, knowing full well that his self-pity isn’t entirely justified. Not only is this gathering just a precursor to Christmas (the big day itself being another fortnight away) but it’s not as though Bill wouldn’t have come if he’d asked him. 

Then again, just the thought of it sends a hot swell of shame through his chest. For as much as he doesn’t hide his... _preferences _from the band and their entourage there’s something about the idea of bringing them here, into both the metaphorical close knit-circle of friends and Veronica’s literal, physical house that sends him recoiling. It’s certainly irrational, and doubtless if he raised the issue with any one of his bandmates he’d be firmly reassured that no one would ever take issue with him bringing a male partner back, but even the idea of doing that has him cringing in horror. No, for whatever reason he’s averse to bringing men into this space, there are some emotions that you have to handle yourself.__

__“Brian’s on his fifth glass of port.”_ _

__In all his musings, Freddie hadn’t noticed Roger approaching. With his hair now cropped shorter than it’s ever been and the faintest glimpses of crows feet around the edges of his eyes, the drummer looks, for the first time, old._ _

__Well, perhaps old isn’t the right word. Adult, maybe; the last vestiges of the unruly young man Freddie knew back at Kensington Market having finally been smoothed away by fatherhood._ _

__Roger leans against the mantelpiece, characteristic impish grin plastered on his face. “Any more and Chrissie’ll be dragging him home.”_ _

__Freddie forces himself to laugh but he knows it sounds hollow and insincere._ _

__“I thought we were keeping this a family friendly affair. If I’d known we were going in that sort of direction I wouldn’t still be on my first glass.” His voice trails off morosely at the end, and with it his gaze drops from Roger to the inside of his glass._ _

__There’s a pause._ _

__“Bill decide not to come in the end?” asks Roger. Then, when he receives no response, the soft sigh of: “Fred…”_ _

__Freddie feels his grip tighten on the glass. Around him the shadows from the fireplace suddenly feel more pronounced, like a spotlight. Maybe he should’ve chosen a less conspicuous place to sulk._ _

__“It’s not like that, Roger.”_ _

__“Then what is it like?”_ _

__“Roger, please,” Freddie rubs the bridge of his nose, glaring at his best friend. “I’ve had it all bloody day from him, do you think I want to hear it from you, too?”_ _

__“Sorry.” Worst of all is how sincere the drummer sounds. “I’m just worried about you.”_ _

__Freddie snorts. He knows it’s unfair to unleash a days worth of pent up resentment on Roger (especially when he really is just trying to help) but at this point he’s almost too far gone to stop himself._ _

__“That’s what Bill says. That he’s worried about me,” he laughs bitterly. “Do you know, he’s angry because I went out to get bloody milk for goodness sake. Five minutes down the road. But apparently that’s exclusively Pheobe’s job because I’m a bloody celebrity who can’t even walk to the corner shop anymore because ‘we don’t know who’s behind which fucking corner and who might be-“_ _

__The swear word is what brings him back to his senses. Luckily none of the children present seemed to be in earshot but even so... How on earth Roger manages to censor himself at all around Felix is something he doesn’t believe he’ll ever understand._ _

__Cheeks colouring, Freddie once again lowers his gaze, voice this time much quieter when he says, “He only let me come tonight because I told him Ronnie would be disappointed. He’ll still be throwing a hissy fit when I get back.”_ _

__Having exorcised his anger, the words come out defeated. Pathetic even. Enough so that he’s once again flushed with an inexplicable shame._ _

__Why does everything have to be so hard?_ _

__When he finally looks back up at Roger, the drummer is frowning at him. “You went out. For milk.”_ _

__“Yes, because that’s the important part of this story and not the fact that Bill lost his entire shit all because I dared to-“_ _

__“Alright, alright. Sorry,” Roger holds his hands up apologetically, wincing under Freddie’s harsh glare._ _

__“You know,” he begins quietly after a pause, “You don’t have to go back tonight. Dom and I have a spare room, you could just come and stay with us.”_ _

__Freddie shakes his head._ _

__“No, no. It’ll only make him worse if I don’t come home.”_ _

__That’s certainly true. What he of course doesn’t say is that he’s not sure how easy he’d find it, being alone in a house for a family of three. To be surrounded by all those reminders of belonging when he himself no longer feels as though he does. Nevertheless, it’s a kind offer, and he feels guilty for so abruptly declining._ _

__To fill the uncomfortable pause he takes another sip of the ghastly brandy. Acutely aware that Roger’s frowning at him, ready to pursue the matter until he’s worn down Freddie’s resolve when-_ _

__“Papa!” With surprising speed for someone so small, Felix practically hurls himself at his father's legs, adamantly wrapping his arms around Roger’s calf and proceeding to cling like a limpet, blissfully oblivious to the severity of the conversation he’s just interrupted._ _

__Roger leans down, trying and failing to gently pry himself free. “In a minute, Felix. Papa’s talking to uncle Freddie. Where’s your-”_ _

__“Papa! Up! Up!” persists the toddler. With a small chubby hand he grabs hold of his fathers trouser leg and begins to insistently tug, his pulls getting harder and harder the longer he goes unacknowledged._ _

__Roger rolls his eyes affectionately. “Right, come here then, you little monster” He bends down and swings the toddler up into his arms, where Felix immediately replaces tugging on his trousers with tugging at his hair._ _

__Despite his sour mood, Freddie can’t help but feel his face split into a grin. However much Roger would adamantly deny being any sort of lovey-dovey affectionate type, Freddie knows him too well to miss the complete and utter delight in his eyes as he starts pulling faces at his son. While the man can abandon passing acquaintances and casual dalliances as easily as anything, when he really loves someone he throws himself into it body and soul. Freddie would have to have a heart of stone not to find it endearing._ _

__This, of course, doesn’t mean he’ll ever quite get over the shock that comes with seeing his friend’s offspring. Because yes, he’s always empirically understood that humans create smaller humans. That’s just how the world works. But where there were once just his three bandmates there’s now five whole new humans, who somehow look like said bandmates but also like their mothers and grandfathers and aunts._ _

__Felix in particular is sometimes a jarring sight; with his large blue eyes and scraggly blonde hair (although this has been turning darker in recent months) he’s the spitting image of his father. And this is nowhere more obvious than when the two are side by side._ _

__Noticing him staring, Roger stops playing with Felix. “What?”_ _

__“Nothing,” Freddie gives him a small smile. “He looks so much like you, that’s all. It’s quite bizarre, really.”_ _

__“I should hope he does,” Roger smirks, leaning in closer and glancing briefly at Dom over his shoulder. “I’d be a bit worried if he didn’t.”_ _

__Freddie chuckles, giving a mock gasp of shock as he turns to the toddler in Roger’s arms. “Don’t listen to your daddy, Felix. He’s very rude.”_ _

__“Lood,” Around a mouthful of his own fingers the toddler garbles the word back to him._ _

__“What?” Roger laughs “I’m just saying. We go away for months, leaving our women all on their own-”_ _

__“Dear, you’re making it sound like you go off to war. Not everyone gets as easily bored of fidelity as you do. I doubt a few months of you being away is enough time for someone as lovely as Dom to-”_ _

__Roger shrugs, a glint in his eyes. “She’d only need to be bored for a night or two, it doesn’t take much more than that.” And despite himself Freddie finds himself laughing along._ _

__It’s ridiculous and immature and far from being high brow humour, but after the day Freddie’s had he’s just happy to laugh, even at something so juvenile._ _

__Felix however - luckily too young to understand what’s happening around him - remains thoroughly unamused by the whole affair. He blinks at Freddie, expression blank, before turning to his father. “Down…”_ _

__“You want me to put you down?” asks Roger. “Alright.”_ _

__Bending back over (with no small amount of effort) he slides the boy gently to the ground, where he immediately wanders away on bandy legs that still don’t seem quite proportionate to his body._ _

__“That’s all it is these days,” chuckles Roger, a tangible affection in his eyes as he watches his son toddle back to his mother, “Pick me up, put me down. I want this, wait no, I don’t want it anymore. I’m tired, put me to bed. Nevermind, I’m going to spend the next two hours getting back up again.”_ _

__“So he does take after his father?” grins Freddie. But the smile slides off his face as quickly as it had appeared, the arrival of Felix being only a temporary respite from his troubles as his earlier melancholy returns in full force._ _

__If anything he now feels somewhat worse. Not that Freddie wants children, because at this point he’s almost certain that he doesn’t, but the bond between his best friend and his son is striking nonetheless. Even if Brian and John and Roger’s marriages don’t last (the way Brian’s drinking tonight it wouldn’t be unexpected if Chrissie filed for a divorce tomorrow) they’ve created their own families solidified in flesh and blood. Whatever happens, they’ll always have those warm, private enclaves of home to return to._ _

__Who does Freddie have? A man who’ll smash a vase if he so much as dares to go out for milk._ _

__But then again… Freddie takes another drink, adamantly ignoring Roger (something he’s grown very good at over the last twelve years or so) and his concerned frown._ _

__It’s not as though Bill is terrible, he reasons, just difficult. Given the right circumstances he can be perfectly charming. Delightful even._ _

__Besides, hadn’t Roger too once been just as, if not more unpredictable? Just as prone to fits of rage prompted by the smallest of hair triggers? And now here he is, a sensitive family man._ _

__Somewhere in the back of his brain Freddie’s dimly reminded that Bill’s not Roger - Roger’s outbursts may have hurt or angered him but never made him feel genuinely afraid - but he ignores it._ _

__Times change. People change. Again he contemplates the signs of wear beginning to creep at the edges of his friend’s face. Then he turns away and finally finishes the last dregs of what must be the world’s worst brandy._ _

__\- - -_ _

____

_You are so warm_

_My wintertime love to be_

\- - -

**1986**  
**December 20th**

Not only are they both wearing Christmas jumpers. 

They're wearing _matching_ Christmas jumpers, Roger realises, looking on with a grin as Jim hands Freddie a freshly re-filled steaming mug of mulled wine. Freddie cranes his neck and pecks him on the cheek, ever so discreetly, even though he's surrounded by close friends and Roger is quite sure the room would erupt into cheers if he dipped his boyfriend down Hollywood movie style and lay one on him instead. 

Or the other way around. If he's honest, it's definitely the other way around Roger pictures it as he quietly chuckles into his own mug and takes another sip.

Despite the fact that as far as Christmas parties go, this one is certainly up there - from the Christmas classics playlist to the roast goose and pud (compliments to Joe), not to mention the enormous tree and decorations - Roger can still barely even believe that it's December. 

The year has gone by so fast, it seems. Perhaps that's just the way it is, now that he's old. Time flies. But he feels it might have more to do with trying to juggle a demanding six-year-old, a still more demanding baby, and work, and honest to God, he doesn't have a single clue how Deaky still functions. To be fair, he's looking pretty relaxed at the moment over there next to Ronnie, as their two older boys are currently doing a decent job entertaining three-year-old Josh. Even though this includes inspecting all the decorations on the Christmas tree and Roger is pretty sure one of those shiny baubles is shortly going to be history. Especially now that Felix has joined them.

"Careful, Felix!" he calls across the room. Not that he expects it to make much of a difference, but that's his parental duty done. 

He instinctively looks around for Dom and finds her standing by the doorway, rocking side to side with a sleepy Rory in her arms whilst talking to a very pregnant Chrissie. He should probably take the baby off her for a bit. 

He will. In a minute.

Freddie and his garish Christmas jumper have materialised beside him seemingly out of nowhere when he turns back around. 

"Would you rather," Freddie starts, one elbow up on the back of the sofa and head propped up on his hand, a cheeky smile on his lips. 

"Oh god," Roger grins, "go on then."

"... give up sex forever or never make music again?" 

"Pfft!" Roger snorts, shaking his head. "Neither, I'd sooner kill myself." 

"Hah!" Habitually, Freddie's fingers fan out over his lips to conceal his mouth, before he drops his hand and laughs freely. Then he slaps Roger's thigh. "That's exactly what I said, word for word!" 

"Great minds," Roger snickers and they clink glasses, both taking a large, contented gulp of their drinks. 

"Jim!" Freddie throws his hand out, fingers brushing Jim's sleeve as he passes by behind the sofa. "Guess what, dear?" 

Jim stops and turns to him, catching Freddie's hand in his. "What's that?" 

"Roger said the exact same thing!" 

"Only sensible option," Roger adds, sticking his tongue out between his teeth as he grins, and they clink glasses again. 

Jim just chuckles, stroking his thumb over the back of Freddie's hand. 

"It's lucky you won't have to choose then," he says quietly as he glances at Roger and smiles at Freddie, who is now chewing his bottom lip and gazing at Jim with what Roger can only describe as cartoon-worthy heart eyes. 

They both look on as Jim proceeds to swoop in and gently rescues a cornered Oscar from Laura and Lou, who are cooing over him and trying to pet him a little too enthusiastically. The other cats have all wisely slunk off to quieter, safer locations around the house. 

Freddie hums quietly and Roger turns back to him, studying the beatific expression on his face. Freddie's happiness is infectious. There's a warmth in Roger's chest, and it isn't just the mulled wine. 

"He's a keeper, that one," he tells Freddie, nodding his head in Jim's direction. 

Dark eyes twinkle back at him knowingly. Hiding a grin behind his mug as he sips his mulled wine, Freddie arches an eyebrow, looking immensely, endearingly pleased with himself.

"What?" he chuckles and his mustache twitches as he pulls his lip over his teeth, growing a little self-conscious under Roger's gaze. 

"Nothing," Roger shakes his head as he smiles down into his mug, shifting a little closer, shoulder to shoulder with Freddie. "Just… you're happy." 

'It's adorable,' Roger almost wants to add, but doesn't. 

Freddie crosses one leg over the other and leans his head against Roger's shoulder for a moment, cradling his mug in both hands. 

"Obscenely," he says, with all his usual theatricality and yet quietly enough to be meant for Roger's ears alone. And even though it's tongue in cheek, it's clear that the sentiment behind it is genuine. 

"Good for you," Roger grins down at him and pats his knee. "I'm glad." 

When Freddie draws back a little to look at him, there's heartfelt affection in his eyes and a deep sincerity in his voice. 

"Thank you." 

Freddie's hand finds his, giving it a squeeze, and then he's off and strutting toward Brian. 

"Darling! I have a question for you…" 

Life is a funny old thing, Roger thinks as he sips his mulled wine. And love even more so. 

\- - -

_Wintertime winds blue and freezing_

\- - -

**1991**  
**November 24th**

The streets of West London, already richly decked out in Christmas splendour since mid-November, all sparkling and aglow, inspire about as much Christmas cheer in Roger this Sunday evening as the heavy traffic on the A4 which doesn't ease up until he's almost at Cromwell Road. 

Frankly, he could do without all the twinkling lights as they're certainly not helping the tension headache he developed earlier this afternoon, which is now in full swing. Usually driving relaxes him, and he doesn't mind the drive down to West London, but tonight he just wants to _get there_. 

It feels as though he has spent hours trying to just leave already, but one thing after another kept getting in the way. 

He's spent a large part of the last twenty-four hours fretting about last night's press release, resisting the urge to buy a whole stack of Sunday papers just to burn them and avoiding any and all news reports because that would only end in him yelling at the television. Not that he hasn't spent a considerable amount of time yelling and ranting to anyone who would listen anyway, about the unfairness of it all. 

The sheer, sickening gall of the press and their willingness to dig their claws into a _dying man_ , for fuck's sakes. Roger has never felt so much genuine hatred and disdain for anyone as he currently feels for the press. The whole bloody lot of them. 

Well, perhaps Prenter came close. 

But none of that matters now, he tells himself as another traffic light turns green and he's finally coming up to the turning into Cromwell Crescent, minutes away from Garden Lodge. 

Happy thoughts now. Positive energy. 

Yeah. 

A smile crosses his lips as he glances over at the shoebox on the passenger seat, full of old polaroids he had entirely forgotten existed until he dug them up just recently. Freddie's going to love those. They can spend the night reminiscing and comparing notes on old memories. Laugh about how miserably broke and bloody stupid they used to be. Maybe they'll even put a record on or two, for old times’ sake. And he must remember to ask Freddie what he wants for Christmas, Roger reminds himself, before his car phone rudely interrupts his train of thought. 

Roger switches gears and reaches for the receiver, holding it up with his shoulder as he turns into Cromwell Crescent. 

"Yeah, hello?" 

"Roger, it's Phoebe." 

"Oh, hey, what's up? I'm literally around the corner." 

There is a moment's pause. Perhaps a sigh Roger can't hear over the sound of the engine and the traffic. 

"Don't bother coming." 

Whether it's the tone of Phoebe's voice, or simply intuition, the words send Roger's stomach is hurtling down a bottomless hole. Because deep down, he already _knows_ what Phoebe is going to say next, and he wills him not to say it with his entire heart and soul. 

But say it he does. 

"He's gone." 

It's lucky there's no one right behind him, because Roger breaks hard and swerves into a driveway, stopping short of the iron gates of a large mansion. The shoebox topples off the passenger seat, spilling its contents onto the floor. 

A fine spray of sleet is falling in the light of the headlights. 

"When?" he hears himself ask, not sure how he has the breath for it. All the air seems to have left his body. 

"Just now," Phoebe tells him quietly, and then there's silence. Neither one of them knows what else to say. 

"Okay," Roger utters numbly and simply puts the phone down, incapable of politeness and pleasantries. Or so much as a goodbye.

His mind immediately and desperately scrambles for some way to turn back time. Because there has to be a way. 

There can't _not_ be a way. 

A way for him to go back and finish dinner sooner, kiss the kids goodbye earlier, jump into the car half an hour before he did and arrive before-

Before Freddie-

He's staring out into the dark, blind with tears, car engine still running and wipers squeaking rhythmically on the windscreen. 

Moving on instinct, Roger fumbles with the gear stick and throws the car into reverse. Whips his glasses off and wipes his eyes. He's going to Garden Lodge. 

He has to go. He has to see him. For fuck's sake, he's two minutes away. 

He's come to see Freddie, _he has to see him_. 

It's only a short drive around the block. Roger pulls up on the curb and kills the engine. But as he goes to open the car door, something stills his hand. 

It's the sudden realisation that he doesn't want to go. 

Because he's not sure he can bear it. 

Because he doesn't want a skeletal, empty shell to be his final memory of the vibrant person he has loved so dearly for the entirety of his adult life. 

Because no matter how many of them gather beside Freddie's dead body and weep, what good will that do? Freddie would have hated nothing more, Roger thinks, and chuckles. But it comes out a broken sob. 

His fingers slide off the door handle as he takes his glasses off again, leans onto the steering wheel and presses his fingers into his eyes.

He doesn't go. 

There isn't any point. 

Freddie isn't there. He's nowhere now. 

Except-

He's everywhere. He is in every part of Roger's life, in most of his fondest memories, in every piece of music they have created together, in every sunny day, every raindrop and every gale of wind. There will never be a day when he won't miss Freddie, this Roger knows intrinsically and beyond a shadow of doubt, just as there will never be a day when he will see him again. 

The finality of it is incomprehensible.

The sleet has turned to rain and is hammering down onto the roof of the car and the windscreen, the gate to Garden Lodge blurry through the window. 

He doesn't go.

And he knows a part of him will regret it forever. 

But it doesn't matter, in the end. Because he's already too late. 

He's too late.

\- - -

_Wintertime winds blow cold this season_

\- - -

**2019**  
**Christmas Eve**

It's rare for him to stay up so late, these days. Not to mention that he's well into his second tumbler of whiskey. 

He's regretting it already, but it is the calm before the storm and he wants to enjoy it, his capricious old body be damned. 

Tomorrow the house will be full of friends and family for days on end, which is lovely, of course. But tonight everything is wonderfully quiet. 

It's a reverent silence. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all that. 

Roger has tired of the television and settled down in his favourite armchair, whiskey in hand and feet up on the ottoman. The year two thousand and nineteen is coming to an end and the two thousand twenties are on the horizon. Who would have thought he'd be alive to see it? Not him, when he was young. That's for sure!

But then, none of them had really given that much thought to the future, had they? 

None of them had really ever realised how long life could be. 

And how short. 

And how strange. 

In the glow of the Christmas lights, his eyes fall on a framed photograph on the bookshelf. It's always there, has been there, in his line of sight, for decades. It is such a natural part of his surroundings that he doesn't notice it anymore, most of the time. But now that he has noticed it, something compels him to look at it properly, for perhaps the first time in years. 

Roger takes his legs off the ottoman, wiggles into his slippers and puts the whiskey aside, before he lifts himself out of the armchair with a groan. 

He turns on a floor lamp in passing and takes the picture off the shelf, peering down at it. The photograph is black and white. He doesn't remember who took it, but he remembers when. Summer nineteen sixty-nine. Half a century ago. Absolutely bonkers, that is, when he stops to think about it. 

He's standing on the cliffs at Newquay in his swimming shorts, surrounded by friends, squinting against the sun. Mike is there, good old Mike. And Brian, and many of his old school friends from Truro. Roger struggles to remember half of their names. Tim seems to be missing. (Was it Tim who took the picture?) And there, right beside him, is Freddie. He looks so young. It's hard to think of him that way. He's standing rather stiffly, arms crossed in front of his chest and eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Roger's arm is loosely draped around Freddie's waist. Roger frowns at his teenaged self, a little surprised that he decided to do that for the photo, back then, given-

Well. 

Everything. 

Perhaps he was more careless than he recalls.  
It's likely. 

Fifty years. All year that knowledge has been at the back of his mind. This year has marked the fiftieth anniversary of a fair few things, all of which began with one: meeting Freddie. 

It is bizarre to think that more time has passed since Freddie's death than the time they spent together in life. Because still, to this day, there is a marked twinge of sadness in his heart when he allows himself to remember. _Really_ remember. 

More than that, some days it is a deep, dull ache comprised of longing and regret. 

But time isn't linear, as Brian will tell anyone who will listen. And Roger likes the idea of that. Because it means that at this very moment, it's all right there in the aether. As real and alive as he is now. As real as the picture frame in his hands and the thin layer of dust coming off on his fingertips when he touches the glass fondly.

All that laughter, and the tears. And the love. 

Always love. 

And Freddie. 

_Freddie._

Smiling eyes, a grin hidden behind his hand as he leans against Roger's shoulder in the darkness of a cramped, musty market stall. Or a tour bus. Or a nightclub. Or sitting on the sofa, at Garden Lodge. 

Freddie. 

Bathed in morning light and all aglow with life and desire, his body so warm, pressed against him under the sheets, panting shallow breaths against his lips. 

Freddie. 

Clapping his hands together as he roars with laughter. 

Freddie. 

Whipping around at the front of the stage, all spark and sparkle under the lights as he turns to look straight at Roger. 

Freddie. 

Silently wiping tears from his eyes in a dressing room. Or an alleyway. Or in Roger's arms. 

Freddie. 

He can almost hear him, then. The timbre and tone of his voice, as though he'd only heard it yesterday. 

_'Roger, dear...'_

"Merry Christmas, Fred," Roger whispers. 

And as heavy as his heart is, it is also incredibly full. 

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> Please, let us know what you think! We'd absolutely love to hear from you!


End file.
